


Momma never told me there'd be days like these

by De_Nugis



Series: Renovation [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-19
Updated: 2011-09-19
Packaged: 2017-10-23 21:11:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/255010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/pseuds/De_Nugis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From a Winchester perspective, a bad day can look pretty good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Momma never told me there'd be days like these

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the lightning challenge at the LJ comm silverbullets, for the prompt, "Dean never thought he'd get a happy-ever-after. He's glad he was wrong."
> 
> Note that, while this fic is gen, the series it is part of is Sam/Dean. So technically there is invisible background Sam/Dean here.

It’s a shitty day. The Wall Street mogul whose summer cottage (more like mansion) Dean and his crew are renovating hasn’t actually set foot in the place more than twice in the last year. It figures that he’d decide to make visit number three the day that the accidentally pink granite for the kitchen counters is delivered.

Mr. Thorne won’t believe it’s not Dean’s fault. The supplier won’t take the granite back. Dean spends half an hour apologizing. The billionaire bastard still takes off in a snit, without saying a word about the raftered cathedral ceiling, the wrought iron window grills, or any of the hundred and one other things Dean and his people worked their asses off getting exactly right. Then Dean gets to drive home through a chilly September downpour and tell Sam that Clyde Pond Contracting is out five thousand dollars and, coincidentally, he and Dean are now the proud owners of some honking great slabs of Madura Gold Granite. Which is, in fact, pink.

At least Sam likes pink.

Dean parks the van next to the Impala and goes in the side door. The kitchen smells of cumin and onions, and the light on the crockpot is on. The lid isn’t steamed up enough to hide the sad olive drab of Sam’s frugal, low cholesterol lentil stew. A dish invariably accompanied by spinach. Dean peeks in the crisper drawer while he’s getting his beer and confirms. Leafy greens, just waiting to be steamed into sliminess. Gross.

Sam is upstairs in his study, sneezing. He doesn’t look up from the computer when Dean comes in, just reaches for a wad of tissue, blows his nose, scrutinizes the contents of the kleenex, and concludes the performance with a hollow, self-pitying cough.

“How was work?” he croaks dutifully.

“Awful,” says Dean. “Mr Thorne-in-my side is an asshole.” There will be time later to explain about the granite. “You’re still sick? Why can’t you just stay the fuck in bed for a day and get better?”

One side of Sam’s table is piled with books and invoices, the other with sealed packages. September is always busy, students trying to get their course books cheap. Sam’s probably sending out germs in every package. If half the young adult population of the country dies of the flu in the next few weeks, it will be Sam’s fault.

“I’m fine,” snaps Sam. “I’ve just got to get this stuff out tomorrow.” Sam has four and a half shiny gold stars in his Amazon seller’s rating. He’s trying to make up for surviving saving the world by killing himself getting to five. Dean reaches over his shoulder, saves his horrific Excel file, and puts the computer to sleep. Sam coughs again, reproach with overtones of resignation.

“Feed me, woman,” says Dean.

Actually, Sam collapses on the couch while Dean makes rice and dishes up the lentils. He leaves the spinach where it is. The lentil stew has leeks and carrots, and just because he’s passed forty-five doesn’t mean Dean’s going to die of a heart attack the day he eats only three vegetables per meal.

Especially since he’s going to die of Sam feeding him rocks, instead.

“There’s a rock in my stew,” he says.

“Hmmm?” says Sam. He’s left his stew half finished and he’s leaning back with his eyes closed. Dean pokes him in the shoulder. Sam opens his eyes and Dean waves the rock in front of them.

“Look,” he says, “Rock.”

“Did you just take something out of your mouth and show it to me?” Sam asks.

“I took the rock you put in my stew out of my mouth before it broke my teeth or killed me or something, yes.”

“That’s not even a pebble. It’s an overgrown grain of sand.”

“Which makes it food how?”

“It’s probably good for you,” says Sam. His voice is fading. “Some birds eat rocks. Sea lions, too. And alligators. They aid digestion. They’re called gizzard stones, or gastroliths, from the Greek.”

“First you feed me alligator food, then you read me a nature documentary for dessert. I miss your mute period. Mute was good.”

“I’m gonna mute you,” Sam’s voice cracks pathetically into nothing on the last word. Dean gathers the bowls and takes them into the kitchen, brews up some of Sam’s mucky herbal tea and puts honey and lemon in it. Settles back on the couch, stretching his arm along behind Sam’s head to pet his hair a bit. It doesn’t count, because Sam is sick and Dean had a shitty day.

Sam makes a disgusting, contented phlegmy sound. His hair is kind of sweaty and gross, his neck fever warm. Dean should bully him off to bed before he finishes falling asleep on the couch. In a minute. He closes his own eyes. There’s an ominous tickle in the back of his throat. He’s got five thousand dollars worth of pink granite on his hands, he just ate gastrolith stew, now he’s getting sick.

“I made blackberry crumble,” says Sam in a creaky whisper. “It’s in the warming oven. For dessert. You know, if you’re not too full from the nature documentary.”

Then again, it could be worse. He’s got wheezy, talky Sam. He’s got a life with bills and blackberry crumble and shitty days. He’s got a fucking warming oven. It’s been twelve years. Some days he’s still speechless with astonishment.

“We’re redoing the kitchen in pink granite,” he tells Sam.


End file.
